


Rinse

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 04:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15900876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Erestor gets a rare moment with Imladris’ newest guest.





	Rinse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RaisingCaiin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for raisingcain-onceagain’s “Glorfindel/Erestor and #21 "on a place of insecurity"” request on [my tumblr prompt list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/176075204220/prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion, or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

For the first few months of Glorfindel’s return, he’s never seen in the public baths. Erestor doesn’t find it particularly surprising—Glorfindel has a lord’s quarters, with his own private amenities and servants always eager to attend to him. Lord Elrond is rarely seen amidst the steaming pools in Imladris’ east building, but that’s more due to a busy schedule than any real preference. Now and then, Erestor hears the faint whispers of cruel rumours: that Glorfindel thinks himself _too good_ to bathe amongst the peasants. Erestor doesn’t yet know Glorfindel as well as he would like, but he still knows that this isn’t true.

He doesn’t often go himself—his work keeps him almost as busy as his lord, and sometimes the splash of a sink or the quick use of the rain over his balcony is all he can afford. The bathhouse, built for lounging and loitering amidst the steam and candles, seems only a luxury. But every now and then, Erestor will end a long day with enough energy to slink down to their depths. Most of the time, he comes late enough to find them empty.

This time, one shallow pool at the very back is occupied. The chamber is vast, interspersed with columns and lit sconces, but the lone figure still looks up to spot him. Erestor nods in greeting and continues on towards the wall of cubbies and benches at the side.

Though elves hardly flaunt themselves in public the way dwarves seem to, they don’t covet nudity. Erestor has undressed many times before his peers, within the right context, and he’s seen many others do so in this very hall. But something about this one night feels different. Standing with his back to his company, he doesn’t glance over his shoulder to see if Glorfindel’s eyes are on him. But he feels like they are. It gives him the slightest hesitance as he draws out his sash and unfastens his buttons. He sets his accessories, his headpiece, his rings, into one of the cubbies carved out of fallen oak. Then he opens his robes and lets them slide down his body, falling to his feet, leaving him as naked as the day that he was born. 

Folding them and setting them aside, Erestor moves on to gather soap. The bathhouse is still silent, and that’s unlikely to change—the sky is dark beyond the tall windows, letting the starlight slip in amongst the fire’s glow. Erestor slowly turns, to find that Glorfindel is indeed watching him, though more his face than body.

There are several pools available. They’re all dug out of the floor, some connected, others not, and Erestor could choose any one. But he isn’t one to pass up an opportunity, and he finds himself strolling for the isolated bath that sits the farthest from him.

The closer he gets, the more Glorfindel coalesces into detail. He’s every bit as beautiful as the legends said, but it’s even more apparent when he’s _bare_. His body, somewhere just between lean and chiseled, is every bit as handsome as his face. With his back against the tub’s brim, his entire front is on display—the wide, tight muscles of his chest, the toned abs of his stomach, the curves of his biceps, and even his thighs—the water is clear and still and doesn’t hide a thing. His golden hair spills in wet waves down his shoulders, clinging to his face in places and only amplifying the blue colour of his eyes. It isn’t only that he’s painfully attractive: despite the rumours, Erestor’s always thought that Glorfindel looks particularly welcoming. Since his return to their shores, he’s proven only polite, valiant and reliable. That respectful countenance, even more than his inherent charm, is what draws Erestor to the edge of his tub. 

“Good evening, my lord,” Erestor greets, dipping his head but keeping his eyes on Glorfindel’s face instead of his tantalizing body. Glorfindel offers a warm smile in response, as though he hadn’t thought to receive company but is pleased to do so.

“Good evening, Erestor,” Glorfindel returns. Even his voice is perfect: strong as a battle cry but soft as any song. Erestor has always liked the way his name sounded on that talented tongue. “But how many times must I ask you to call me only by my name before you do?”

Erestor smiles thinly, but he saves the name for the moment. Referencing Glorfindel’s well-earned title without speaking the words, Erestor asks, “May I wash you?”

Glorfindel blinks up at him, clearly surprised, but it’s the same courtesy any servant would extend to any lord. Erestor himself usually doesn’t offer such things—he works as an advisor, not a personal attendant—but it seems a perfect opportunity for them to become better acquainted. Erestor’s quite sure that the reason so many of his peers are bitter about Glorfindel’s absence from the baths is because they’d very much like to get their eyes and hands on such a handsome specimen. At first, Glorfindel seems to hesitate, but then his eyes rake once over Erestor’s body, still standing bare before him, and he answers with certainty, “Yes, thank you.”

With that invitation, Erestor steps into the bath. The water is pleasantly warm, much more so than the temperate air around him, and it’s a welcome respite to slip into that velvety embrace. Glorfindel watches unabashedly as Erestor slides in and takes a seat along the submerged bench that circles the pool. Erestor’s dark hair instantly clings to the skin of his back, but he saves rinsing it all for a later time. He shuffles closer to Glorfindel, soap still in hand, and presses it against Glorfindel’s collarbone.

Glorfindel’s breath hitches, his eyes on Erestor’s. Erestor has little experience with washing others—he can only hope that doesn’t show and make his pretext obvious. He drags the bar along the smooth plains of Glorfindel’s shoulder, his other hand carefully brushing back strands of yellow hair. Glorfindel is docile and obedient as Erestor lifts his arm, drawing suds down to his knuckles, making note of every dip and muscle. Erestor works in silence—a comfortable one, in which he can only appreciate what lies before him. Eventually, Glorfindel murmurs, “I had thought this chamber small, once, compared to what I was used to. ...But I am swiftly warming to it.”

Erestor glances up through his lashes. Like most that have only heard the distant mythos of the past, Erestor wants to ask what splendors Glorfindel was used to. But Erestor has more restraint than most, and he holds his tongue. He doesn’t know Glorfindel well enough yet to tell if those memories are painful ones, and he doesn’t want to pry. Finished with Glorfindel’s arms, he works down Glorfindel’s middle, under the water, tracing each curve and line. When he reaches Glorfindel’s hips, Glorfindel spreads his legs a little wider. Erestor pauses. He’s always considered himself quite _proper_ , worthy of a seat on Lord Elrond’s council—he acts only with thought, never reckless. Yet he still experiences longing like any other, and for a brief moment, he considers crudely escalating the gentle moment.

Then he regains himself and dips down Glorfindel’s thigh, leaving his crotch untouched. Glorfindel doesn’t say anything for or against this treatment, but when Erestor looks up again, Glorfindel’s eyes are still on his face and not his hands. Erestor reaches Glorfindel’s knee, then takes in a breath and slips off the shelf, ducking underwater to scrub down to Glorfindel’s feet. He has to reemerge for air more than once, and each time he does, Glorfindel’s eyes look a little darker. 

When Glorfindel’s legs have been thoroughly attended, Erestor rises to Glorfindel’s other side. Now drenched with his hair plastered all about him, Erestor asks, “Would you turn around... Glorfindel?” A title would have worked better in the context, but Erestor is good at following instructions. Glorfindel dons a sudden frown.

The quiet reluctance returns, though Erestor can’t guess why. He waits patiently for an answer, and then Glorfindel finally shifts away from the wall, turning his back to Erestor and sweeping his soaked hair over his shoulder. Erestor is given a view as grand as he expected, different only in the long, jagged scar that’s slashed across his spine. Erestor eyes its long expanse, then quietly asks, “Is this scar your hesitance?”

Glorfindel lets out a tired sigh. Before this moment, Erestor would have never expected to hear such a defeated sound from someone so positive. Thus far, Glorfindel has struck him many times as cheerful. Erestor curiously adds, “But you are a great warrior; surely you have grown used to the sight of scars.”

“The songs of me would have you think that,” Glorfindel mutters, his head deliberately turned away. “But the hardest battle I fought was the one I lost, and the Valar restored me without the damage of its flames. ...And then I follow their wishes to these shores, and orcs accost me on the road. New to this form again, fresh and fumbling, I made a childish mistake in a battle that should have been a breeze. And I... am ashamed of it.”

Erestor hums his sympathy. He’s never been a warrior, never even held much interest in a sword, but he’s always respected the talent of the guard. Somehow, he had thought Glorfindel beyond even them, to the point of being invincible, untouchable, perhaps even cocky: as larger than life as all the stories. To hear him speak so humbly, and of the blessings of the Valar, feels like an honour. Erestor runs one finger along the part of the scar that’s risen above the water. A subtle shiver runs through Glorfindel’s body. Then Erestor bends to press a kiss against it, giving that his blessing. 

“A battle won is a battle won,” Erestor decides, “And a warrior so noble as you deserves a trophy in any form.”

Glorfindel glances over his shoulder. A grateful smile stretches across his lips. In that moment, hushed and honest, he looks more handsome to Erestor than he ever has, even more than when he first arrived in Imladris, tall upon his white horse and gleaming in the dazzling sun. 

As he had first hoped, Erestor thinks the two of them might grow to know each other quite well after all.


End file.
